


Demons in the Eyes

by inspiration_assaulted



Series: The Music of 221B [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, References to Drugs, References to Suicide, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:16:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspiration_assaulted/pseuds/inspiration_assaulted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the Imagine Dragons song "Demons"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Demons and Devils

**_When your dreams all fail_ **

**_And the ones we hail_ **

**_Are the worst of all_ **

**_And the blood’s run stale_ **

Three years. Three years since he stood there, on that cold day, with the sky threatening rain. There had been a gentle breeze that day, he could see it as it made his coat move, his scarf sway a bit, his curls

No.

The details. The devil is in the details. The details were the sharpest, razors against tender skin, blood with a salt chaser. The details made his leg ache, his heart ache, his soul ache. The details carried the worst pain.

And he remembered all of them.

He remembered stepping out of that cab, knowing something was wrong. So terribly wrong. He remembered looking up, mouth still open to continue that strange, fateful conversation, squinting against the unnatural brightness of the cloudy day. He remembered seeing _him_ up there, what was he doing up there, why did he need to be up there? He remembered receiving an order;

Stay where you are!

An order, a fucking order, did he know what that did? His mind, his body telling him to stop fucking around, what was he doing, he had orders to follow, 18 months isn’t enough to forget a lifetime of a chain of command, a military mindset, do as you’re told Watson. His heart and soul screaming, no, don’t listen, something’s wrong and you know, you may not be him but you know something’s wrong, so terribly, horribly wrong, so wrong!

Of course he knew what that did. No one else could compete with his _massive intellect_.

Then he asked a question.

That’s what people do, isn’t it?

Not even a proper inquiry, just a statement of a fact with one of those little questioning phrases all British people use tacked onto the end. One of those annoying rhetorical questions, never meant to be answered, only asked to make someone feel stupid or because he liked the sound of his voice, and oh god his voice, what he wouldn’t give to hear that voice again, even to insult him, just one more

No.

But the details won’t leave his mind, and the devil is in the details. And the worst devils lay in the moment _after_. They lay in the wet, faintly acrid smell of the rain on the tarmac, in the rich, almost beautiful red-purple color of the blood, in the scarlet tinted reflections of the rooflines and cloudy sky, lay in the sound, oh god the _sound_

No. Too much.

Too late.

The worst of all the devils, the keenest tormentor with the sharpest blades and most agonizing poison, lay in the eyes. In the blankness, the emptiness, the lack of life and vitality, of intelligence and curiosity, of love and hope and wonder and all the things that make a person _alive_. In the dead eyes.

His eyes.

John’s eyes.

No one now could tell them apart. There was no true difference, save what they pointed at. His dead looked through his lids, through the earth and into the bright blueness of the sky.

John’s dead eyes looked through his memories, through the details, the devil is in the details, and into the cold darkness of the barrel of a British Army Browning L9-A1.

Perhaps it is fitting. The barrel of the gun shows no emotion, no life. Just like his eyes, in the end, _after_. Maybe, for once, just one moment of those three long tortuous years, John can pretend to look past his eyes and _see_ something, just once.

John’s eyes never move, never flicker, never once show signs life as he touches the note in his shirt pocket. It’s short, not an explanation, not really, only for _him_ , so he will know.

_That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note?_

_Capt. John Hamish Watson, MD, 5 th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Blogger_

**_When you feel my heat_ **

**_Look into my eyes_ **

**_It’s where my demons hide_ **

**_It’s where my demons hide_ **

**_Don’t get to close_ **

**_It’s dark inside_ **

**_It’s where my demons hide_ **

**_It’s where my demons hide_ **


	2. They Dug Your Grave

**_So they dug your grave_ **

**_And the masquerade_ **

**_Will come calling out_ **

**_At the mess you’ve made_ **

A mind spinning with thoughts, and yet, curiously blank. A pain that was so sharp, and yet, not sharp enough. Pale eyes of a man who was alive against all odds, and yet, still dead.

Not in a coffin beneath his headstone, dead, but dead in a way that was worse than death. Breathing, moving, thinking, acting, but without joy or laughter or curiosity or emotion. An empty man, an animated shell with a human face, left alone in a dusty room to ponder paradoxes.

A living dead man. A man who drove people from him but only craved a friend. A man who used pain to dull the pain.

A hardened soldier in soft jumper. A man whose hands brought life and death. A man who only broke down when the stress was gone.

Paradoxes, all of them.

Pale eyes flickered around, seeing everything, and yet, observing nothing.

_As always, you see but do not observe._

Was there any reason too? Cold facts could not fill his longing for warmth. Everything thing was cold now. Three years of chill. Cold rooms, cold people, cold thought, cold eyes. Cold needles.

The chemicals did nothing, he only sought the pain. Cold metal invading flesh. He mixed in something special, just to make the pain sweeter, to make it burn through his veins. To make him feel alive.

He was still dead. The burn was cold, too, like frostbite. It was not the fire and warmth he so needed. It was not the sun.

_How can you not know the Earth goes round the Sun?_

How could he not know he had his own sun to orbit? His own provider of warmth and energy, the light he needed in his dark nights.

Like a fool, he had jumped. Thrown himself out of the orbit. He was a lost planet, frozen over, wandering through the dark emptiness. His sun could not find him here, and he could not reach his sun.

It would be better to lie in the false grave. His sun, his paradox, his shining light fed by inner darkness, could find him there.

Pale eyes caught a flash of light. Not his sun, only the icy needle. Perhaps, perhaps that was the way to the false grave, the place his sun could reach him again. A special blend, colder and more burning that all the others. Perhaps that would finally be enough pain.

_Leave a note?_

Yes, a note. He would leave a message for his sun. Someone would know to tell him what it was. His sun would understand.

A quick sketch, no better than a child’s. The Solar System. Not the one that counted, of course, but his sun would understand. His paradox would forgive him for the mess he had made.

**_When you feel my heat_ **

**_Look into my eyes_ **

**_It’s where my demons hide_ **

**_It’s where my demons hide_ **

**_Don’t get to close_ **

**_It’s dark inside_ **

**_It’s where my demons hide_ **

**_It’s where my demons hide_ **


End file.
